Last night was a terrible night.
We were watching this awful old movie The Day After about nuclear holocaust. Please don't judge us-- we were tired and it was just apathy that kept us in our seats-- and my cousin Julie called. A few months ago (actually the same week as Edwarda) my cousin Gary died. He was 56. It was from the same colon cancer that seems to kill every one of the Chappells. I hadn't talked to Julie since his death and it was a very hard conversation; I felt totally inadequate because there is nothing to say to someone who's grief is so raw and pure.
She and Gary had started dating at 14; they were married right out of high school, and had three children, who all live close to her so that's comforting. They had an exceptional marriage; I think it was a real love affair. When you were with them, there was something about the quality of the way they listened to each other; have you ever noticed how couples whose marriages are in trouble don't listen at all? Anyway, her grief is somehow humbling-- it's a grief based on such an enormous loss- of a person, a life spent together, and a future that they had so many plans for--
She said, I loved our life so much, I don't regret a moment of it, but it was just so short a time.
And I think of marriages that last a couple of years, and then fall apart and everyone moves on.
At the same time, I ended up terrified hearing the details. Gary had colon cancer. EVERYONE- EVERYONE in my family dies of colon cancer, and although I have a colonoscopy every three years, I think it won't do a bit of good. And Julie also mentioned that another cousin has been diagnosed with it.
So at 1 am I wake up with this pain in my chest and arm and I think- great, I don't have to worry about the cancer, I'm having a heart attack. THEN I get terribly nauseated. THEN I decide it's an anxiety attack and I get up to get online and write or calm down, and I can't get online, which increased my stress level. Finally, I go digging in the medicine cabinet and find this ancient bottle of my mother's xanax that must be ten years old. Why I have it, I don't know. I broke one in half and took it and then I waited to die, either from sudden onset cancer, nuclear disaster, a heart attack or expired xanax poisoning.
But I fell asleep instead. |
